looking up ☼ maeve + dorian
Two days. Two days with a heavy cluttered skull and a sick, sick woman incapacitated up the stairs. Dorian chewed his fingernails. He hooked his ankle round the leg of the chair. Balled his hands into the rug someone had draped over him while he slept, then pressed and pressed at the dip under his ribs. The witch wouldn't even help. The Ranger healer was useless. He glanced down at Maeve's prone form. Looked so weak and cold, even under all the furs and blankets. Two days. He clasped and unclasped and clasped his hands again.
Dorian would've liked to have counted the days out to the hours, but everything was blurring together. Only vague events seemed to take shape in his memory, and none of them were particularly cohesive with his current perception of time. She'd fainted, first, he knew that. At some point he'd told the blacksmith not to mention his helping...no, that had to be after the man had carried her from the bakery. It...might've been last night that he remembered to eat, and he thought it was yesterday that he retrieved his sketchbook to scratch designs in as he waited. Sometimes he wandered downstairs, tried to work, then felt guilty and fearful and raced back up until the uncertainty drove him down again. And there was one more thing that bothered him: all he knew for sure was that two days had passed, and he, the sort to value precision, was not sure of exactly how or why they were passing like this. With his found sister just lying there.
So for now he just waited.
